


The Black Widow Remix (Part One)

by rosecoloredrage



Series: The Black Widow Remix [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecoloredrage/pseuds/rosecoloredrage
Summary: Follow Natasha Romanoff (aka Black Widow) as she struggles to overcome her past, atone for her sins, and find herself. Each part in the series will span the length of its corresponding movie with some parts covering the missing time in-between. While the plot line is MOSTLY canon, this is a behind-the-scenes look with some canon-divergent moments. (Part One: Iron Man 2).





	1. I Am...

Natasha closed her eyes. 

For the briefest of moments, all was quiet. She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled through her pursed lips, feeling her diaphragm move as she did. Natasha held her hand against her torso, focusing on the rise and fall to steady her breathing. She kept her hand high, avoiding the raised puff of scar tissue on the lower left side of her abdomen. One year had passed, but the old wound had yet to fade. Maybe, it never would; it had earned its place along with several others that would serve as a reminder that she had a past, even if she, herself, could not remember that past in its entirety.

Then, the first somber note of Rachmaninoff's _Prelude Op. 3 No. 2 in C# Minor_ pierced the silence, and her eyes opened. With each subsequent note, she moved slowly—listening to the emotion in the piece and moving along with it. For a minute and a half, she kept this pace, creeping along with stilled and dramatic flourish. That first minute and a half was torturous; she longed to spring to life. But it wasn't the pacing that made every passing second difficult to bear.

She felt each low note as if it were an autonomous, tangible thing that could alter its mass, flow through her, and take up residence inside her. From head to toe, she felt each note vibrate her being, echoing throughout the empty cavities in her body and the remnants of her fractured soul. With each of these notes, Natasha was struck with the memories that they roused in her—of a half-forgotten life in the Red Room—unsure if the memories were her own or if they were a fiction, lies to control her and the others.

Natasha found respite as each series of low notes, which were interrupted by lighter, higher notes. These conjured memories of blue eyes, dark hair, and metal.

The scar burned in response.

She continued on with her intricate dance; slow, sweeping flourishes—with her mind turned towards darker memories—for the low notes and light, airy movements _en pointe_—as if she was reaching for anything like a happy memory, which were few and far between—for the high notes.

Around the minute and a half mark, the tempo began to increase in speed. Natasha turned her mind off, focusing instead on the technique required to perform a series of rapid spins and leaps. This continued only for a minute until the pacing reached a fever pitch, causing Natasha to lose her spotting, if only for a moment.

That moment was enough; she fell to the hard floor of the dance studio.

Natasha stayed grounded for a bit as the notes slowed down, not to their original tempo, but slow enough to hear each one distinctly. She rose to her feet with some effort, struggling under an avalanche of memories—real or fake—threatening to consume her entire being. The tone of the song turned triumphant, and Natasha regained her balance.

For the remainder of the song, she focused on blocking out the emotion, the memories, and everything in between, and concentrated on the movements of her muscles, the feel of fabric against her skin, and the tickle of baby hairs around her face and at the nape of her neck.

She only allowed herself to be aware of the pitch of individual notes towards the end. Though the piece threatened to end on a series of low notes, Natasha was surprised by a brief series of high notes. It had been so long since she'd played this particular prelude, that she'd forgotten them. They were beautiful in contrast to the tempest that preceded them. They sounded like hope.

To honor that feeling, Natasha finished _en point_, hands raised high, and her face tilted towards the ceiling. Her eyes were closed as she basked in the glow of the artificial light, pretending it was the sun. She wanted to lose herself in that feeling but kept control.

Natasha stayed in that position, waiting for the next piece to start, when she realized that it should have begun already. This thought was immediately followed by an overwhelming sense of being watched. She lowered her head and opened her eyes.

Facing the mirror, she caught the reflection of a familiar face: Clint Barton.

Realizing he'd been caught, he emerged from the shadows—slow clapping as he did—and leaned against the large structure that housed the sound system.

The feeling of danger subsided, and Natasha closed her eyes once more.

"Knock much?" She asked, feigning annoyance.

"Well, I didn't want to _knock_ you off your balance." He picked up the CD that Natasha had left on top of the speaker. "But I guess that was naïve of me."

He'd seen her fall. Fake annoyance was morphing into a very real annoyance, mostly with herself, but why bother when she had a blameless victim to blame? Since Clint had made "another call" all those years ago, he'd been insistent that she learn to share her life with him the way he had, the way friends do.

_Sharing is caring_, he'd said, grinning that stupid, lopsided grin he saved for teasing her. The first time he'd said it, she'd punched him in the face and was surprised when she didn't succeed in punching the grin off; rather, he kept it plastered on through the bleeding and bandaging and every day after that...well, most of the time, anyway.

She lowered herself back down from her position _en pointe_, slinking to the ground and curling inward like a snake, and began the arduous process of removing her ballet shoes.

"You'd think," she began as she worked, "that after all these years, you'd have learn not to mess with me, Barton."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Of what? Learning? Oh, I know..."

Shoes finally off, she sprang up in one swift, fluid motion and slowly turned to face him, putting on her blank expression as she did. The carefully-constructed mask was one that continued to haunt Clint, or so he claimed. He called it a "thousand-yard stare with dead eyes," adding that the serene smile made it even creepier.

_It's like you're looking into my soul. _

_ Stop it! I feel naked._

_ This is a violation._

_ Don't make me report you to HR...or...does S.H.I.E.L.D. have an HR department? If not, I'll tell Fury._

And later it was: _I'll tell Laura on you. _

Each protestation, each claim was always accompanied by a series of groans and whines that conflicted with his professional persona and confused Natasha in the beginning of their friendship. Eventually, Clint had been forced to sit Natasha down and explain humor to her. In the years that followed, she noticed that he often opted for exaggerated silliness when he was in a good mood. The more he trusted her, the more often that was. Now, the exclamations and vocal theatrics were music to Natasha's ears. It'd been two weeks since she'd heard them.

As she glided towards him, a movement that she knew would only enhance the creepy serenity of her features, his eyes widened while he started backing away from her, spewing each one of those outrageous claims, one right after the other, as he went.

Clint stopped when he hit the wall, but Natasha didn't let up until they were practically nose-to-nose. They stood there, silent. It was a nice kind of quiet—new, but already familiar. It sounded like home.

They both broke at the same time, smiles spreading across their face, teeth and all—a rarity for someone in their line of work. And when Clint reached out and pulled her in for a hug, Natasha let him, circling her own arms around his waist in return.

He muttered something about learning and "showing her," but her hair muffled his voice, and the next thing she knew, he was pretending to spit and stretching his neck as far as it would go to avoid her hair.

She sighed and backed up a little.

"I got your sweaty hair in my mouth," he groaned, still spitting.

"That's what you get for messing with me."

He smirked. "I've had worse."

She arched a brow. "I'm sure, but you're mistaken if you think that's the extent of your punishment."

"Hmm...what if I come bearing gifts?" He asked, raising his own brow and pursing his lips—a caricature of intrigue. He even raised a pinky to the crease of his mouth à la Dr. Evil.

She laughed. The noise still sounding foreign to her after all this time.

"Are they shiny?" She asked, playing along.

Clint furrowed his brow and scrunched up his face, looking almost turtle-ish.

"You could say that."

***

True to his word, Clint _did_ come bearing gifts, and some _were_ even shiny. She could and would say that. They weren't the type of shiny some women hope for, but the type of shiny Natasha never knew she would one day grow to treasure. The gifts in question were a collection of drawings made by little hands and big hearts: Cooper and Lila.

The "shiny" was glitter. A ton of glitter. So much glitter, that Natasha was certain she'd never be able to vacuum enough to get all the bits that fell off the paper and onto the carpet, each molecule burrowing its way, deep down, into the fibers. And she loved them.

As she sorted through each one, she was secretly pleased to see red loops and squiggles atop a collection of connecting black lines—what could only be her depicted in crayon. She could tell the difference between Cooper's art and Lila's, and that pleased her as well.

"Wow," she said, tracing a finger over one of Lila's creations, "I didn't know Lila could draw like this." She looked up at Clint, not sure how to phrase her next question. She didn't have a frame-of-reference for the artistic abilities of 2-year-olds.

He seemed to understand her unspoken question.

"Yeah. Lila's advanced for her age. Doctor says her hand-eye coordination is off the chart." He beamed.

Natasha didn't miss a beat. "She must get that from her mother."

"Humph. I was going to say me, but..." he trailed off, waiting for her to acknowledge the obvious. She just smiled, happy to let him stew in his mock-frustration.

Clint kept quiet as Natasha continued to admire her gifts, occasionally voicing her approval or admiration without response from the artist's father. Apparently, he was giving her the silent treatment. When she was done, she set the pictures down on her desk, making a mental note to invest in some frames. The walls of her dingy, studio apartment were bare. The pictures might make the place feel something a bit more like a home.

Natasha turned to see Clint sitting on her bed, pout still in place. She rolled her eyes.

"I'm sorry, but have you seen my best friend? About yea high," she held up her hand, approximating Clint's height, "sandy brown hair, squarish head, crow's feet—you know, grown man, the whole thing?"

That got his attention.

"Crow's feet? I brought gifts, and you insult me. I'm hurt, Nat, really. I may not survive."

"Well, that would be a shame, if I knew who you were. Speaking of which, only one person is allowed to call me 'Nat,' and it's the grown man I mentioned."

Clint scowled. She parroted his expression, reveling in the comfort of their friendship.

"Oh, come on, Clint. You're acting like a petulant child. Of course, Lila got your mad skills."

Though his face was turned in the opposite direction, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.

"Me? Petulant child? Never."

She nodded. "The worst."

At this, he turned to face her, a quizzical look on his face. She didn't like it.

"Oh, no. Not the worst."

"Oh, really?" She hoped the bravado in her tone masked the impending sense of doom that came over her. Unfortunately, she could no longer hide her true feelings from everyone she crossed. At some point, Clint had wormed his way into her life and could read her like a book.

"You have no idea."

***

Natasha didn't have to wait long to figure out what Clint meant. Less than twenty minutes later, she sat in Fury's office, staring at a thick folder and trying to stifle an icky feeling in her stomach. In her mind, she was rifling through an imaginary Rolodex of excuses that could get her out of this latest mission, but she was never one for excuses; each card kept coming up blank.

Fury's voice was rumbling in the background, but she was too distracted by the words he'd just said. She couldn't focus on anything he was saying now. It was a problem, given the weight of the mission, and she struggled to correct the issue. With a little more effort, she was finally able to focus on the words coming out of his mouth.

"I know this seems a little low-level to you, Agent Romanoff, but—given the circumstances—you're the only one I trust to get the job done right." He paused for a moment, most likely giving her the once-over to ascertain her mindset, before continuing. "Almost everything you need to know is in that folder. Agent Coulson's going to send you some encrypted files later. I can give you 24 hours to do your homework, but then we have to get you in there."

She swallowed, hard—her throat, dry. "Yes, sir."

"This is important. I'm going to need a little more confidence than that." The eyebrow above Fury's one good eye lifted as he cocked his head towards her.

Natasha raised her gaze to meet his and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Seemingly satisfied, Fury pushed the folder towards her, and she grabbed it.

"Agent Coulson will be your primary point-of-contact during the mission, but I want you to CC me on anything vital, understand?"

She nodded.

"Good. You can go."

Natasha stood up, taking the folder with her. Just as she reached the door, she heard Fury's voice once more.

"And Natasha?"

She turned.

"Yes sir?"

Fury had stood up from his desk and was standing in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, and staring out at the city below. He turned—only his head—to look at her, knowingly.

"Good luck."

She nodded, unsure how to respond, and left. Quickly, she crossed the hallway and slipped into the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty. She ducked into a stall and locked the door before whipping out the contents of the folder.

There he was. On the very first page. A picture with a brown-eyed man staring back at her, almost like an accusation. The latest mark of her latest mission.

_Tony Stark_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Part One of The Black Widow Remix will cover the events seen in Iron Man 2 but from Natasha Romanoff's POV. While the plot line for this part (and any others that follow) will be MOSTLY canon, the POV shift necessitates canon-divergent scenes. Other areas may be borderline-au, but that will be based on response and my own whimsy. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Story also posted on WATTPAD and FANFICTION.NET (as Rose-Colored-Rage).
> 
> Also, if you like my story, be sure to check out my Youtube channel for Marvel-related videos. Link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCRyIBgGBXQwciLvd_3fck8A


	2. Homework

"This is impossible!"

Natasha slammed the mission brief on the countertop with a resounding _thud_.

Clint was perched on the other end of the L-shaped counter, tossing darts at a dartboard that hung on the wall opposite him.

"Mmm?"

Natasha's shoulders drooped, followed by her head, and—by the time Clint turned to look at her—she had her face smooshed into the pile of papers that were spread across the countertop.

She groaned. "There's no way in, not where I can get close enough, anyway." Her voice was muffled by the position of her face and the pile of papers, but Clint got the message.

He hopped off the counter and came to stand by her. Carefully, he lifted Natasha's head and nudged her whole body a few inches to the right before allowing her head to drop back down on the countertop with another _thud_. She groaned again.

With open access to the paper mountain, Clint shuffled the papers into a manageable stack and some kind of order, then flipped through them. By the time he finished, Natasha had picked herself up and was stealing a beer from his fridge. She gripped the bottle with both hands as she walked back towards Clint, stopping in front of him and jumping up on the kitchen island opposite his position. Her eyes were glazed over after hours of research. She twisted the cap off with her bare hands and lightly tossed it at his face. He caught the cap in one hand, without looking, and tossed it in the bin, his eyes never straying from the document in his other hand.

Natasha alternated between sipping the beer and resting the cool glass against her forehead as she watched him re-read the files. The condensation felt nice against her warm skin and oncoming headache.

"Yeah," he lamented, "I got nothing."

Clint set the files back down.

"I mean, there's no way something like a honey pot would work on a notorious womanizer."

Natasha's lips tightened into a thin line.

Then, through gritted teeth, "I can't run a honey pot if I can't get near him, you dingbat."

Clint made his customary turtle face and grabbed his darts again. As he tossed one after another at the dart board, he muttered under his breath. Even with her heightened senses and extraordinary hearing, Natasha couldn't quite make out what he was saying nor did she care to.

When Clint ran out of darts, he marched across the room to retrieve them. Once he reached the board, however, he turned back around.

"Okay, the way I see it, you take a job—any job—just to get your foot in the door, yeah?"

"Sure, 'cause I didn't already think of that."

"By all means, let me know when the red head moment has passed." Clint leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, waiting.

Natasha rolled her eyes and took another sip of her beer. When she realized he wasn't going to budge until she dropped the attitude, she sighed and waved for him to continue.

"Like I was saying, take any job. Fury wants you to make first contact by tomorrow, but company infiltration will have to suffice."

Clint grabbed Natasha's nearby laptop and, after a long series of clicks and scrolling, he flipped the screen around to reveal the job listings page for _Stark Industries_. He'd narrowed the list down to office locations near Stark's main office building and Malibu home. There were only a few, the most promising one listed as _Notary Public I_.

"Just get in the door, Nat. If you do that, you can go from there...think on your feet, you know? Easy peasy."

Clint reached over and snatched the beer out of Natasha's hand and took a swig. He swirled and swished the drink in his mouth a bit, as if he was gargling mouth wash. When he was sure she was sufficiently grossed out, he swallowed and smiled widely, clearly pleased with himself.

"Easy peasy?"

"Easy peasy."

"Sure, sure, but the only job that has the best chance of getting anywhere near Stark is the notary gig, and even those chances aren't good. It's an entry-level position, see?" She pointed to the I-level identifier. "That means there are other notaries, higher level notaries. If Stark even needed a notary in the next week or so, one of them would get called first."

"Then take their place."

"How?"

"Use your imagination."

Natasha jumped off the counter and threw her hands up in frustration.

"That's my point. I've tried. I can't pay them off; his staff is well-paid. I can't subdue them 'cause they'd report me; likewise for taking them out. But none of that matters, because there's no guarantee he will even need a notary any time soon. I'd need to be sure, first." As Natasha went down the list of reasons why his suggestion wouldn't work, the volume and pitch of her voice increased.

Clint seemed to be enjoying that. It was a rare sight to see Natasha get flustered.

"Okay, so...honey pot?"

"You said that."

"But you made it seem like a honey pot op required employment at _Stark Industries_. Maybe not?"

"That's great and all, but I can't exactly run an op like that on someone like him."

"What do mean?"

For what it was worth, Natasha could tell Clint was genuinely confused. She'd have to be patient.

"With most honey pot ops, you have to have contact with the mark in some form. I can't get to Stark. Six months ago? Maybe. _Maybe_. And even then, chances of successfully running that kind of op would be low for a womanizer like Stark."

"And now?"

"Now? In the last six months, since the whole Afghanistan/Iron Man thing, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. It's like he persona non grata to all women—or, rather, them to him, I guess—except for..." she snatched one of the papers off the counter, scanning for the name, "...Ms. Pepper Virginia Potts. The personal assistant. She's like his gatekeeper or something. Look."

Natasha pulled the laptop closer and pulled up the YouTube video of the Senate Hearing from earlier that day. As the video progressed, Natasha pointed out several instances where Tony Stark would look over at Ms. Potts, only to be met with her disapproving stare, and causing him to immediately rein in his own, obnoxious behavior.

"Are they a thing?" Clint asked.

"Not according to the files. And, of course, Coulson—who's had the most contact with Stark and Ms. Potts—doesn't know. If he does, he hasn't said a thing about it."

Natasha turned and began pacing around the kitchen. Clint watched her from his perch on the counter.

"Even if they are a thing," she continued, "six months wouldn't be a problem, given Stark's history. The main issue, _still_, is that I can't get near him." Natasha threw Clint a look of exasperation. "He was never exactly the model for self-preservation, but—with the Iron Man thing—his behavior is more erratic than ever before. He uses his suit as a primary mode of transportation when traveling alone. Then, when he's with someone, it's a Colonel or his bodyguard. Those two wouldn't necessarily be a problem, either, but Potts is. Gatekeeper, remember?

"For a honey pot to work, I'd have to know exactly where Stark was going to be. The only time I know that, it's either in a heavily populated setting, televised, or locked away in his house. And don't get me started on breaking in. With his tech and random but regularly updated security measures—coupled with J.A.R.V.I.S.—breaking in would be impossible, at least without inside info..." she trailed off, seemingly resigned.

The silence that ensued was interrupted by a _ping_ coming from Natasha's computer. She marched back over to the laptop and clicked the secure messaging file that popped up on her screen. By the time she noticed it was from Coulson, it was too late, the message had opened.

"Well, that's just great."

"Good news?" Clint asked. While he'd enjoyed her initial outburst, Natasha's continued stress was starting to stress _him_ out.

"Don't know. Haven't read it, yet. I don't have time to get chewed out right now."

Natasha looked at the clock on the stove. She had, maybe, five minutes from the read receipt of the email until Coulson tried calling and, maybe, twenty minutes after that before he showed up. She was supposed to send her Infiltration plan an hour ago. Now, she had, maybe, 25 minutes before she was truly in trouble.

Begrudgingly, she scrolled through the contents of the email, but it wasn't what she expected. Instead of an impatient demand for her plans, the body message read:

_Agent Romanoff,_

_I've just confirmed that Stark is signing over Stark Industries to his personal assistant, Pepper Potts. They've sent the contracts to be finalized and plan to sign and have them notarized when they are all drawn up, which should be approximately two weeks from today. According to my source, they have exactly one notary but are currently interviewing alternates. Send me your cover, and I'll set up an interview. Get it and you got a foot in the door. As for the primary notary, she'll need to be incapacitated in some way. Your usual methods are out for obvious reasons; find a way that won't draw attention. _

_If I don't get your cover in ten minutes, I'm coming over. Give my regards to Barton._

_-P. Coulson._

"Huh," was all she could say, as she tried to figure out how to spin this without giving her friend the satisfaction, but she was drawing a blank.

"Everything okay?" Clint asked, leaning over to get a better look at her screen.

Natasha minimized the message.

"Mmm? Oh, yeah." She opened the file containing her numerous covers, trying to find the perfect one. "You know what, I could eat."

"What about Stark? And Coulson? What did he want?"

Natasha barely noticed Clint as she mentally compared one cover to another. While Stark may not fall for a honey pot, she knew one cover that was bound to get his attention. She scrolled down until she found the right file. After finding it and reviewing it, her initial decision was reaffirmed. It was perfect. The cover was last used from 2005-2007 and included a stint as a model in Tokyo. The résumé was flawless, and the qualifications included her ability to speak a variety of languages, as well as many other intellectual merits.

"Nat? Earth to Nat? You in there?"

She paused her scrolling, looking over at Clint. "Mmm?"

"What did Coulson want?"

Now that she had her infiltration access point, everything was falling into place. She had time to figure out how to take care of the other notary. In fact, the task didn't sound nearly as difficult in light of the new details. Once the notary was disposed of, the images would get his attention. The details would draw him in.

"Coulson? Oh, he sends his regards...and a _Coulson ex machina_."

How could "Natalie Rushman" fail? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Reviews are welcomed, encouraged even.
> 
> Also, check out my YouTube channel, Cracked Fandoms, for Marvel tribute and crack videos: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCRyIBgGBXQwciLvd_3fck8A


	3. "Natalie Rushman"

_ How could "Natalie Rushman" fail?_

How indeed?

Natasha freed her damp hair from the towel turban piled precariously upon her head. She grabbed a picture of "Natalie" and faced the mirror, holding the picture up next to her face.

"Hmm..."

Sitting on the couch in the adjacent room, Clint looked up from the TV. He leaned over to get a better view of Natasha in the bathroom. "Hmm...?"

"Natalie Rushman was my cover from 2005 to 2007."

"I remember."

"Well, the dye I used then isn't made anymore."

Clint turned the TV off and joined Natasha, who was perched on the counter, still squinting at the photograph.

"I don't get it," he said, looking from her to the photograph and back again, "all I see is red hair."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "There are a zillion shades of red, birdbrain, especially when it comes to hair care."

"But why should it matter, if it's close enough?"

She looked at her friend's reflection in the mirror. "Because it's Stark. Even with his history, he's not exactly an idiot. And, after looking at his file, I think it would be safe to assume that he has some trust issues. It would explain why he keeps his circle small, especially after the incident with Obadiah Stane."

Clint nodded dumbly along as she explained, while the confused look on his face only grew. "I'm lost. What does that have to do with your hair, again?"

Natasha set the picture down and started rifling through the dye packets. "He's a genius, and if he has trust issues, then he'll be on the lookout for artificiality."

Clint groaned. "I still don't get it. If he's worried about that, then why dye your hair?"

"Because I'm going in as Natalie Rushman," she said, as if it was obvious. When the confused look didn't fade from his face, she continued. "Genius plus trust issues equals a need for my cover—past and present—to sync up perfectly."

Finally, realization settled over Clint's features. "Ah."

Natasha picked the picture up again and, together, they resumed their squinting.

*

Hours later, they were still squinting, but now Natasha's hair was less damp and a darker shade of red. The_ right_ shade of red.

Satisfied, Natasha got to work styling it _à la Natalie Rushman_ while Clint parked himself back in front of the TV. When her curls were just right, she joined him, too exhausted to go through the boring process of planning her cover's wardrobe. She couldn't quite commit to vegging out with Clint, though, so she took her cover packet to study.

After a while, the fumes from the dye started to get to her. She set the file aside and tried to focus on the TV. A few minutes in and she almost laughed.

"What...what...are you...watching?"

Clint grunted into his beer. "HGTV."

Natasha smirked. "I got that from the icon on the bottom of the screen."

The show faded to commercial, and Clint swung his head to face his friend. "Then why'd you ask?"

She snatched his beer and took a swig, pondering his question. "I guess," she started, pouting when Clint stole the bottle back, "the better question would be: why?"

Clint shrugged. He got up and grabbed two more beers from the fridge, tossing one to her. "You never know, I might get an idea for the farm."

Natasha arched a brow. "Oh, I know about that 'why.' I was under the impression that Laura had put a ban on any more projects, so _why_ are you looking for inspiration?"

With a sheepish grin, Clint only shrugged and re-joined her on the couch, turning up the volume when the show came back on. They sat like that for some time, mindlessly watching home repair and DIY shows and nursing their beers, enjoying their last night before Natasha had to leave for Malibu.

*

At some point in the night, both Natasha and Clint had fallen asleep. It was in the early hours of the morning that Natasha woke, her neck stiff from the position she'd slept in.

Slowly and carefully, Natasha extracted herself from the mess of blankets, snack wrappers, and documents, all in an effort to not wake her friend. All her effort was useless. In the end, Clint joined her, helping her pack for the trip in silence.

The quiet persisted between them on the car ride to S.H.I.E.L.D., while Natasha finished selecting and packing her cover's wardrobe, and while she was collecting her tact gear bag.

They were also silent as they joined hands; a silent goodbye.

Then, Natasha was boarding the plane, on her way to Malibu, California.

Operation: Stark Shadow was a _go_. 


	4. Natasha & the Longest, Boring, Most Insufferable, Torturous Week Ever

Operation: Stark Shadow may have been a _go_, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Natasha tried to avoid grinding her teeth, but she already felt the tension in her jaw giving way to a headache.

Exactly one week had passed since Natasha had made first contact. She’d aced her interview for the notary position with the head of HR. Now she was stuck in a cubicle inside a two-person office connected to the legal department—as far from Tony Stark as she could possibly get while still working for him. If the cubicle was in the midst of the large legal office, the situation may have been tolerable. As it was, her sole companion was a cardigan-wearing, cat-loving, 24-year-old paralegal and head notary public called Samantha Carlisle.

And her supervisor, as Ms. Carlisle mentioned several times on Natasha’s first day.

She tried to give Ms. Carlisle the benefit of doubt. After all, it wasn’t Ms. Carlisle’s fault that she’d never gone anywhere or done anything. It wasn’t her fault that she’d attended a local college and gotten a notary license. It was a good paying gig. It was safe. Income and safety were important in these trying times. Natasha respected Ms. Carlisle for that.

All of that respect, however, was not enough to redeem Ms. Carlisle’s personality. As it turns out, those who never go anywhere or do anything are boring.

Natasha glanced at the clock and subtly massaged her temples, trying to assuage the oncoming headache. For nearly an hour, Ms. Carlisle had been describing—in-depth and with her signature nasally voice—the latest episode of her favorite show. If Natasha had been so inclined, she could have watched the actual episode by now. She could actually feel her eyes glazing over as Ms. Carlisle launched into yet another side story about something that happened previously in the show in order to explain the next plot point of the episode. Natasha’s gaze drifted to a pen and imagined all the ways she could prevent her tormentor from continuing the story with it.

The minute hand on the clock marched on. Each forward progression seemed slower than the last, until—finally—it arrived at the 5:00 mark. Ms. Carlisle was still blithering on about the show when Natasha stood up to collect her things.

“Oh dear, is it that time already? Well, you know what they say: time flies when you’re having fun!”

Natasha recalled another technique she could use with her mental murder pen. Still, she forced a pleasant smile. “How true. And we get to do it all again tomorrow.” Her words sounded sincere, even to her own ears, but her body tensed at the thought. How would she endure another week or so of this? It was hell. She was in hell.

“Um, Natalie? Natalie? _Natalie?!_”

Natasha stopped just as she was exiting their isolated office, remembering her cover. She turned. “Mmm?”

Ms. Carlisle smiled sweetly, but the look in her eyes was a touch too condescending for Natasha’s liking. Another murder pen scenario popped into her head.

“You silly goose,” Ms. Carlisle chided, prompting a vision of murder pen scenario #23, “tomorrow’s Saturday.”

Natasha stared at her, blinking.

“We don’t work on Saturday…” Ms. Carlisle continued, her smile fading.

Natasha shook her head, fighting the stupor that had taken hold of her after hours of listening to Ms. Carlisle’s story. “Oh,” she laughed, “I guess you’re right. I _am_ a silly goose. You know what, I was just so caught up in your story…” she trailed off, having no clue how to falsely indicate that she was actually interested in Ms. Carlisle’s story. At least, no idea how to do so without prompting a continuation of the story on Monday morning. 

Even with her non-committal response, Natasha’s excuse was met with a high-pitched squeal of…delight? The sound made by the flippy-haired blonde was something like a cross between a pterodactyl’s screech and the howls of a kitten trapped in the pterodactyl’s talons. Absolutely nothing in Natasha’s training had prepared her to respond to a noise like that.

_Give me bullets; give me explosions. _

_ Give me anything but whatever that was. _

To her credit, Natasha kept her expression neutral, hoping that Ms. Carlisle would have a follow-up to her own abominable caterwauling because Natasha was drawing a blank.

Thankfully (or not, depending on how Natasha looked at it), the squawk was followed by a stream of bubbly laughs and snorts, as Ms. Carlisle bounced violently up and down in her seat.

“Gah!” she exclaimed, through her hysterics. “I’m so excited. No one else watches the show, so I haven’t had anyone to talk to about it.” Her eyes widened, and she started clapping her hands together. The scene reminded Natasha of Lila’s reaction to the first time the baby spooked herself by farting. “Oh! This is _ah-mah-zing!_ You know what? I have the first four seasons on DVD; I can bring the whole thing to you on Monday.” Ms. Carlisle sobered up long enough to wag her finger at Natasha. “Only if you promise not to scratch them up, though. You gotta promise.”

Like an idiot, Natasha nodded. _Dammit._

Ms. Carlisle clapped her hands again, bouncing up and down so hard, Natasha half-expected the petite blonde to launch herself up and straight through the ceiling—a vision that, while enjoyable, could not compete with the satisfaction of her own murder pen fantasies. Hopefully, Ms. Carlisle would forget. Natasha wasn’t planning on holding her breath for that scenario, though. She had the distinct feeling that Ms. Carlisle didn’t have a lot going on that would cause her to forget.

Natasha looked at the clock; it read 5:07.

Desperate for an escape, Natasha smile sweetly. “I promise,” she lied. “Looking forward to it,” she lied, again. “But I do have someone coming into town tonight and staying with me this week, so I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get to it.”

Ms. Carlisle went still, one eyebrow raised and the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. “Ooh...a boy, perhaps? Do tell, Natalie, _dahling_.” She stressed the last word with an exaggeratedly posh accent.

_Dammit. _

“Um. No. Not exactly.” Natasha retreated to her mental Rolodex that was still devoid of excuses. “I’ll tell you on Monday, but I have to go pick them up.” She made sure to watch her pronouns to leave options for her future story. “They should be arriving any minute, so…” Natasha inched closer to the door, offering up a half-hearted wave as she went.

“Snackle-fracks.” Ms. Carlisle frowned momentarily before breaking into another sly smile. “I’ll hold you to that, Nat!” She laughed. “Ha! ‘that,’ ‘Nat.’ Get it?”

Natasha nodded, envisioning murder pen scenario #24.

_That’d teach her to call me Nat. _

“Have a great weekend, Ms. Carlisle.” Natasha smiled, this time with a bit more effort. What Ms. Carlisle didn’t know, was that the longer she held Natasha captive, the closer she was to her own demise.

_Mission be damned._

“Nat, you’re killing me.”

_Not yet…_

“How many times do I have to tell you, call me Sam, girlfriend.”

With zero work-place, civilian-appropriate responses available and two seconds away from giving in to her murder pen fantasies, Natasha could only smile, nod, and slip out the door without another word.

*

Clint wouldn’t stop laughing.

Natasha hadn’t been lying about a visiting friend. Clint had been waiting at the apartment issued to her by S.H.I.E.L.D. when she finally arrived. He’d immediately sensed her bad mood and suggested a sparring session to alleviate her tension. She’d accepted whole-heartedly.

Now, he looked to be regretting that offer as Natasha took every ounce of her annoyance with Ms. Carlisle out on her best friend.

Despite nearly each blow finding its mark, Clint couldn’t help but laugh every time he caught a glimpse of Natasha’s scowl or whenever she launched into another diatribe against her co-worker.

“…or, excuse me, _supervisor_.” Natasha rolled her eyes and huffed, delivering a well-aimed uppercut at her sparring partner’s abdomen. “Kept repeating it, like she was somehow superior to me. _Me!_”

Winded, Clint fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.

“As if,” Natasha slammed into him with an elbow drop, forcing him flat into the mat, “_she _was _my_ superior!” She flipped over and had Clint in an armbar before he could recover. “Seriously, in what world?” She was so far gone, she barely noticed her friend tapping out.

“Nat!”

Natasha blinked, finally aware of her grip, and released him. Clint remained prostrated on the floor, while she collapsed next to him, on her back. They remained there for several minutes with Clint panting into the pliable foam mats and Natasha staring up at the ceiling, barely winded.

Once his breathing settled, Clint flopped over onto his side, propping his head in his hand, and studied Natasha.

“So…from what I’ve gathered, I don’t have to be concerned about losing my best friend to the platonic affections of another?”

Without looking, she reached out with one hand and pushed him onto his back. He grinned and laced his hands together, using them as a cushion to rest his head on.

“I wanna say I’m right, but your violent response to my theory gives me pause.”

Natasha closed her eyes and smirked. “I’ll show you a violent response.”

“I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but shoving is considered a violent response, ipso facto you’ve already shown me one. I take it they didn’t have recess in Mother Russia, or you’d know that. Pushing and shoving on the playground is a big no-no.”

Eyes still closed, Natasha lazily swatted in Clint’s general direction, the back of her hand connecting with his face.

“Same goes for slapping, Romanoff,” he paused to return the playful gesture. “I have so much to teach you.”

“Meh. I don’t know about recess, but I learned all about pushing, shoving, slapping, and a number of other violent acts in the Red Room, as I’m sure you’re already aware. No additional instruction required.”

“Touché.”

After a long period of silence, Natasha continued, “She called me ‘Nat.’”

Clint jerked up to a sitting position, pulling Natasha up after he’d settled. “Her address?”

Natasha arched a brow, “No. You’re not going to kill her.”

He shrugged. “Why not? From what I’ve heard, the _ah-mah-zing_ Sammy _dah-ling_ has it coming.” He ducked to the side to dodge Natasha’s slow-moving fist but caught it in the shoulder.

“How is it that I’m Russian—or, used to be, anyway—and my pronunciation is better than hers.”

“Well, Nat, _dahling_,” he ducked to avoid another lazy punch, “some people, unlike yourself, have a sense of humor that doesn’t involve severe bodily harm or death. The lowest denomination of these people express their sense of humor by placing emphasis on certain syllables or—”

Natasha pushed him again, and Clint fell to the ground with an _oof!_ Natasha laughed.

“Laugh all you want, but you’re just proving my point,” he grimaced, rubbing his head as he sat back up. When he’d reached her level, they locked eyes. Immediately, Natasha knew what was coming.

“Don’t do it, Clint.”

He arched a brow.

“I mean it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“I’ll kick you.”

Clint pursed his lips into a coy smile à la Ms. Carlisle. Then, in the most exaggerated impression he could do, based on the situation explained to him in great detail by Natasha herself, he followed through. “_Dahling_.”

She kicked him square in the chest, and he fell back to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you kindly for the Kudos! I would love to hear what y'all think. Is there anything you're looking forward to? What you want to see? Etc.,. 
> 
> At this point, I have one more Stark-less chapter, before jumping on the Tony train. So don't fret, his time is coming.


	5. The Black Bag Job

After five straight days of mind-numbing 9-to-5s, Natasha finally felt like she could breathe once she had shed the Natalie Rushman façade and slipped into her catsuit. She was Agent Romanoff, again.

Once night had fallen, Natasha and Clint reluctantly left the gym and re-convened at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s field office in preparation of Phase Two in Natasha’s infiltration plan. The supplies needed were minimal: long-distance comms, night vision goggles, and access cards. Additionally, Natasha charged up her Widow Bites and packed a frequency jammer that would temporarily disable J.A.R.V.I.S. Clint, on the other hand, insisted on taking his bow and some arrows, including tips that could act as grappling hooks.

Their mission was simple: infiltrate Stark Industries and Tony Stark’s personal home for intel. With two targets a decent distance apart, Clint offered to assist. After the week she’d had, the last thing Natasha wanted was to return to the building she’d been stuck in, so Clint offered to take that location while she went to Stark’s private residence. She would have preferred a side-by-side infiltration of both targets, but the time constraints and the risk of Natasha running into a _Stark_ employee were too great for her to re-visit her temporary place of employment in her official capacity. So, once they were suited up with black bags in hand, they wished each other luck and set out on their separate assignments.

The drive to Tony Stark’s home was quiet and quicker than Natasha expected. When she arrived, Natasha parked out of sight but as close to the target building as possible. She cut the engine and picked up a pair of binoculars, performing a visual assessment of the grounds and status of the home. A few lights were on inside, which Natasha expected. It was still early enough.

Time passed slowly, and Clint’s radio silence was agonizing. It occurred to her how strange that idea was. Her concern for Clint’s safety had crept up on her in the years since he’d spared her life and helped her defect. When she wasn’t surveying the grounds of Stark’s Malibu home, she was glancing down at her phone, impatiently waiting for word from her friend. They had agreed that she would hold off on executing her portion of the mission until his portion was complete. If Clint was detected, she would have to abort. If he made it out clean, he’d be able to meet up with her if things got dicey. Going up against Iron Man on her own wasn’t exactly Natasha’s idea of a good time.

Natasha was running through mental simulations of one-on-one fights between a suited-up Tony Stark and herself when she was interrupted by the _bzzz bzzz_ of her phone.

_ Mission complete. Headed your way._

_ -C._

Natasha set the phone to silent and slipped out into the night.

As a target, Stark’s home had its pros and cons. Its location on a cliff overlooking the water meant the gentle roar of waves crashing on the rocks below. The noise may have helped to cover any sounds she might inadvertently make if she was in the habit of making inadvertent sounds, but her lightness of foot made that a non-issue. As it was, the noise only drowned out anything that may have been useful for her.

On the other hand, the location was pretty isolated from other houses, so Natasha was able to park from a safe distance and then cover that distance by foot without worrying about running into anyone else.

As she got closer, Natasha circled the mansion to check for signs of activity. Earlier on, she’d seen Tony’s assistant and future CEO of _Stark Industries_, Pepper Potts, leave in a chauffeured car. Natasha hadn’t gotten a great look at the driver, but she was pretty sure it had been Happy Hogan based on his height and build, assuming the pictures in her intel packet were up-to-date. Before setting out on this mission, she’d confirmed that Colonel James Rhodes was back in D.C. to clean up the mess from the previous week. If Stark was home, she was pretty sure he’d be alone.

Except for J.A.R.V.I.S.

Stark’s security system was the reason why she’d waited so long to infiltrate his house. It had taken nearly all week to gain access to the operating system to be able to bend it to her will. Now, she’d be able to slip in undetected, or unreported, at the very least.

She was almost finished circling the building when Natasha heard music. She visualized the blueprints she’d committed to memory and realized that she was somewhere near Stark’s workshop. Unless he was in the habit of leaving music on all the time, it was safe for her to assume that Stark was awake and working there.

“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath, “just what I needed.”

Natasha retreated back a bit to size up the mansion, looking for a way in that was as far from the workshop as possible. Quickly and quietly, she skirted the mansion’s exterior, hugging the walls when possible to avoid the cameras. She’d made it to the other side and found herself getting closer to the edge of the overhang when her gaze fell on a pool nestled between the mansion and the cliffside. If her memory proved correct, there was a side entrance that would grant her access to Stark’s home gym. From there, she could take the stairs to Stark’s room and work her way back down.

In less than a minute, Natasha had scaled the small wall dividing the pool area from the open grounds, crept up the short staircase that led to the side door, and hacked into Stark’s security system. She hesitated before entering, taking one last glance around the exterior for any previously unseen complications, as well as a long, hard look through the glass door of the dark room she was about to enter. With a deep breath, she opened the door and slipped inside.

Any suspicions Natasha previously had about Stark having company were all but confirmed as she made her way upstairs without encountering a soul. Most of the house was dark, but there was at least one light source active everywhere she went. While the occasional lights were helpful in the sense that she could see where she was going without having to use something problematic like a flashlight, they restricted her movements to the darkest shadows. The higher she climbed and the closer she got to Stark’s personal rooms, the brighter it got.

Stark’s bedroom was located on the top floor, which was mostly dark, much to Natasha’s relief. A steady glow emanated from a screen nestled in between a wall of cabinets and drawers. As she allowed her eyes to adjust, she took in her surroundings and noted the impersonal décor. The furniture and bedding looked like they belonged in an upscale, 70’s-style modern hotel. Everything was sleek and shiny—or would be if properly illuminated. Despite the warm colors, the design and lack of personal mementos left Natasha with a cold, familiar ache in her gut.

*

Natasha kept an eye on the time as she investigated Stark’s personal rooms, taking photos of everything that could be useful. Once the bedroom, bathroom, and personal office were checked, she crept down the hall with every intention of moving her investigation to the floor below, when the lights in the stairwell lit up. Natasha backed quickly away—her eyes fixed on the shadowy form growing larger and closer on the paneled walls—and into Stark’s bedroom.

Into a corner, she realized a moment too late.

From here, there was no escape. This section of the mansion jutted out over the craggy edge of the cliff, and the windows looked out over a vast nothingness—the dangerous blackness of an unforgiving ocean at night. She couldn’t repel down. The only thing below was harsh waves crashing into jagged rocks. She couldn’t use her suction cups to scale the building; they took too much time to assemble and didn’t work well on material other than glass.

Now, the light in the hall flicked on, and Natasha heard the throaty hum of an unfamiliar song growing closer. Her eyes darted from the door to scan the room in search of a hiding spot before diving into the bathroom. She had just ducked into the shower when Tony Stark entered. Much to her dismay, he marched straight into the bathroom and over to the shower.

This was it. She was about to be caught. The mission was over before it had really begun.

Natasha held her breath.

On the other side of the shower, Stark continued to hum. A few of his notes were punctuated by a series of beeps that were drowned out as the shower turned on. Immediately drenched, Natasha scowled and backed further into the tiled corner, as far away from the cascading water as possible.

While she couldn’t see Stark from her hiding spot, the heavy sounds of boots against tile and the rustling of cloth against skin left little doubt in Natasha’s mind regarding her mark’s actions. She tensed up, prepared for the worst.

“Mr. Stark, you have a visitor at the front door.”

The soothing tone of J.A.R.V.I.S.’s English accent through unseen speakers was music to Natasha’s ears.

“I’m half-naked, J.A.R.V.I.S. and not for a peep show, either,” Stark replied, a condescending edge to voice.

“My apologies, sir. I informed the gentleman that you were unavailable, but he was quite insistent, sir. A Mr. Francis Archer, I believe.”

Natasha perked up at this. Clint had arrived in the nick of time. She must have missed the rendezvous.

There was a loud thud followed by a faint ringing of porcelain and a groan. Natasha pictured a half-naked Tony Stark banging his hands against the bathroom counter in frustration. Her imagination wasn’t far from the truth.

Another groan and then, “what does he want?”

“He claims to be an affiliate of S.H.I.E.L.D., but failed to produce credentials,” the disembodied voice explained. “I would have handled the matter myself, sir, but he also claims to be acting on behalf of Agent Coulson, so I found it necessary to alert you.”

Another groan, this time longer and louder. It echoed throughout the bathroom.

Natasha realized she was still holding her breath and exhaled in an attempt to steady her rapidly beating heart.

“Fine. Tell him I’ll be down in a sec.”

“Yes, sir.”

Natasha heard a series of beeps, and then the shower shut off. Quietly, she pulled her phone out. Thankfully, the water hadn’t penetrated her catsuit.

Sure enough, there were two messages from Clint: one informing her of his arrival and the other of a plan that would give Natasha only a small window of time to escape.

She opened the shower door but stopped short of actually exiting.

_ I’m drenched. He’ll know someone was here. If Clint was on surveillance, then he’ll be implicated…._

Natasha grimaced but didn’t waste time in stripping off her wet catsuit and jamming it in her bag. Once the bag was zipped up, she shook it around to shake off as many water droplets as possible. 

Clad only in a sports bra and underwear, Natasha stepped out of the shower, allowing her bare feet to carry her through Stark’s bedroom, into the hall, down the stairs, past Tony Stark making a fuss at the sudden disappearance of his mysterious guest, down a second flight of stairs, through the gym, and out the door, which she locked behind her. She’d passed the pool and scaled back over the wall by the time her control over the system had reset and the exterior surveillance was back up.

Clint met her at the rendezvous point. He was leaning casually against his car, which was parked next to hers. As she approached, she could make out the arch of his eyebrow and the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Not a word,” she warned.

He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

They both climbed into their respective vehicles and took off. As Natasha followed Clint towards the field office, she found herself humming an unfamiliar tune. 


End file.
